


Stealing Hearts

by Unchained_Daisychain



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But they're made for each other, Flirting, Fluff, Frisking, John and Paul are hoes, M/M, Smut, Strangers to Fuck Buddies to Lovers, attempted thievery, general fuckery, lots of flirting, stupid strip teases, too many music references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-02-02 05:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12720525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: All John had planned that day was to nick a few records. In hindsight, he wasn’t completely sure how he ended up with a stranger’s hand in his pants and a valuable heart to steal.





	1. Shoplifters of the World Unite

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested of me on tumblr. This is what came of it. I hope you enjoy, and anyone else with a request can now know that I may get carried away with it.
> 
> Happy reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"My only weakness is a list of crime. My only weakness is well, never mind, never mind...._

It seemed an easy enough target, quaint and unsuspecting. And John was crafty, his sticky fingers fruitful more often than not. He’d nicked some quid from Mimi’s purse on occasion, or bypass paying more for lunch by hiding the extra food on his tray. Needless to say, ducking in a record store to snag a few LP’s shouldn’t be much of a challenge.

The shop was called Spins and Needles, a red, retro font bursting against the grey brick. It was relatively new to town but still managed an impressive display. Records were plastered to the windows from the inside and several neon signs advertised various genres and music media. On the walkway a large speaker blasted the music undoubtedly playing inside of the shop.

Enticed by the vivacity of _The Lemon Song_ , John stepped inside.

At the sound of the door chime, the bloke at the counter instantly greeted him without so much as raising his head.

“Welcome to Spins and Needles,” he said, robotic and lackluster.

John stood in the doorway scanning his eyes over the young lad. He stood cradling his chin with his hand, a few fingertips pressed against his bottom lip. John couldn’t see most of his face, as a mop of dark hair shielded it in favor of reading a magazine. Records spilled around him on the counter top and the turntable spinning Zeppelin sat by the wall. A black hoodie that looked one size too big pooled around his thin waist, that same bright red font plastered on the front. John suddenly ached to feel as comfortable as he looked.

“Don’t get _too_ excited over there, mate,” he said in reply to the bland greeting. Not that he cared for a formal one.

“They just pay me to say it, mate,” the boy said, idly flipping a page. Even though it was devoid of cheer, his voice had a smooth, pleasing timbre.

“A real working class fella, eh?”

The worker merely hummed and flipped another page.

John shook his head and stepped farther into the store.

On the walls, he recognized many of his heroes, either clad in leather or posed with guitars. Then there were the more modern artists. The popular spokesmen of all mainstream genres littered the walls to display the shop’s musical integration.

He smelled a fruity scent as he passed the counter, also spying _Rolling Stone_ magazine as the one of interest, and made his way towards one of the more inconspicuous aisles.

Truthfully, his taste in music was rather cheap. That is, shops charged near nothing for the LPs because most of them were used and the music itself was outdated. But that was never enough reason to stop John from nicking them. He could spend a little quid or have a bit of fun; the latter stirred his blood in a way the former never could. Besides, his aunt Mimi was always riding his back about saving money anyway. He was just being an obedient nephew, he was.

At a row in the corner, he casually surfed through a crate of records but mainly kept his eyes on the bloke at the front. His head was raised higher now, so John had a clear look at a large pair of doe eyes still glued to the magazine. More distracting than the lure of his eyes was the mouth wrapped around a vape pen—the source of that sweet smell. Smoke rings passed between his parted lips and dispersed in the air around him.

John licked his lips and cleared the smoke rings from his own mind. He looked back down to where his hand had unconsciously stopped mid-flip—Elvis stared up at him with eyes as heavy as those of another dark-haired lad’s. Without thinking, John slipped it into his field jacket with one swift motion. Checking the employee was none the wiser, he smirked and pressed his luck further.

After he managed to stuff three more records into every nook provided by his clothes, John began to feel a bit paranoid. For one, the doe-eyed vaper, coincidentally or not, had put a The Smiths album on the player and placed the needle precisely on _Shoplifters of the World Unite._ When John had looked towards the front in concern, he was merely met with a soft smile. But the music didn’t stop there; one after another, songs concerning theft and immorality filtered in and out of the speakers. What did John’s head in the most was that the boy never even kept his eyes on him longer than a second. With brief glances, there was no way he could know John was robbing the store blind.

When a completely uncalled for country twang came on singing of outlaws, John decided he’d had enough and grabbed the closest and cheapest LP he could find before marching up to the counter. He slapped the record on top of the open magazine, quickly being met by the glare of the shop-keep. John smiled cheekily before rooting into his pocket for his wallet.

The other boy picked up his album and ran it under the scanner with a quiet snort.

“Big fan of Madonna?” he asked, derision evident in his voice.

“Wha-?” But as John looked up with a frown, he noticed the Material Girl herself peeking between the lad’s slender fingers.

He pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

“Oh, for Christ—you know what, just….” He peeked inside a tub on the counter full of random records and pointed at the first one of his taste. “Just gimme that Buddy Holly 45 there and put the bloody virgin back.”

The bloke laughed—John prickled with embarrassment—and tossed the unwanted record onto a pile near his stool.

He grabbed the 45 and scanned it, then said, “That’ll be ten and twenty pence. And do you plan on buying those in your trousers as well?”

John’s stomach dropped and his hand faltered mid-transaction. The other boy stared at him with a sparkle in his eyes and a shit-eating grin on his face.

How the _fuck_ had he seen him? It’s not like LP’s were poking out of his jacket or forming unnecessary bulges in his trousers. They were strategically hidden and hardly noticeable. John was an experienced shoplifter.

And because of that, he forced himself to remain composed and conjured his wit that always lurked at the surface of a dicey situation.

“Oh, you never ask a man what he’s packin’ in his pants,” he drawled, smirking and leaning his elbows against the counter to deflect from the stolen merch. “‘S rude, you know. Like askin’ a woman if she’s pregnant.”

“Well, now that you mention, the ones shoved up your jacket do make you look a few months along, too.”

Not to be outdone, the other boy met him across the counter, their faces a few inches apart. John narrowed his eyes but found they were merely staring at a pair of pouty lips. He couldn’t help but feel he’d absolutely picked the perfect lad to steal from today.

Meeting his eyes again, John held a twenty pound note between two fingers. “I think I’ll just be buyin’ the one, love.”

Two stunningly arched eyebrows rose beneath dark fringe. “And you think I’m gonna let you waltz outta here with me records?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, darlin’.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. In fact,” he backed away from the counter and extended his arms, “why don’t you come out ‘ere and _confiscate_ whatever it is you think I got.”

John had absolutely no idea what he was doing. _Of course_ he had the records on him. Though he’d managed to hide them at first, there was no way to make them vanish entirely. But some mischievous part of himself wanted to see if this gorgeous lad would actually take him up on the frisking. He’d get a much greater thrill out of that than any petty theft.

As if mulling the prospect over in his head a few moments, the other boy stayed behind the counter, studying John and biting his lip. Finally, he hopped onto the counter and threw his legs over the opposite side. He jumped down and stood in front of John as though giving him one last chance to change his mind.

He’d be a fool if he did.

So, slow and teasing, the other boy unzipped John’s olive green jacket. When his eyes spotted the corner of a Bob Dylan album, he plucked it out and raised a brow at John. The latter raised one of his own in challenge.

Just as the lad went to slide a hand up John’s shirt for another record now visible without his jacket, John grabbed his wrist.

“I usually like to know a bloke’s name ‘fore I let ‘im start groping me,” he said, enraptured by the boy’s gaze and sensitized by his touch.

A smirk curled the corner of his mouth. “Name’s Paul.”

He slid his hand down in John’s grip until it held John’s own.

He hummed and shook it. “Pleasure.”

“Maybe later.” John’s eyes widened. “For now, what’s yours?”

“I don’t think I wanna tell you until that ‘maybe’ becomes a ‘definitely’.” He grinned lecherously, his eyes walking the blue jean mile of Paul’s legs.

“That ‘maybe’ is gonna become a ‘no’ if you don’t give me a name.”

With every fiber of his being, John did _not_ want that to be the case. He knew he’d never forgive himself if Paul slipped away from him. A gripping urge to wrap this boy in his arms—baggy hoodie, chubby cheeks, and all—and shower him with his affection consumed him.

“How does John suit you, then?” he asked.

“I think he’ll suit me just fine.”

Just as the heat of those words settled in John’s stomach, Paul placed a hand on his shoulder and brought him closer. Never breaking eye contact, he eased  his hand inside John’s shirt. When his fingers grazed the skin, lingering for far longer than necessary, John’s breath snatched and his heartbeats stuttered. Paul ran his hand down John’s stomach as it surfaced from within his shirt, record in tow. His pupils were blown wide and hardly concerned with the LP in his hand.

John watched with a fluttering stomach as Paul’s eyes trailed down his body and stopped at the front of his trousers. They both knew what he would find.

Smirking, John too looked down. With his arms still outstretched, having no intention to stop whatever was about to happen, he said lowly, “Go on, love. I can assure you it won’t bite.”

Paul rolled his eyes and tugged John forward with a finger curled around a belt loop. Rather roughly, he began undoing the belt of John’s tight dark jeans, jerking and pulling the strap until John had to steady himself by holding his shoulders.

“Ooo, a feisty one, you are. It doesn’t bite, but that doesn’t mean it won’t get angry.”

Paul laughed, the sound genuine and pleasant to John’s ears. His smile etched little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and John desperately wanted to kiss them.

“Exactly what the fuck am I gonna find in your trousers, mate?” he asked, stopping his task for a moment and grinning.

“A lot more than you can handle, I’m sure,” John said, squeezing his shoulder with the hand still holding it.

“You’d be surprised what I can handle.” And with a final jerk, John’s zip was open and his pants rested midway down his thighs, revealing a snug pair of boxer briefs.

To the floor clattered an Elvis LP and 45. Where he should’ve felt embarrassed about getting caught, John instead felt a swell of pride at being able to smuggle so much on his person. From the looks of it, the other lad was quite impressed too.

“Should’ve known you’d try to get Elvis in your trousers,” Paul quipped, bending down to retrieve the loot from the floor. John followed his movements with his eyes, not even bothering to zip back up.

“Well, now that you’ve taken ‘im out, it seems there stands an offer for a replacement.” John scanned his face, taking in the plush lips and nearly black hair. “And I must say, you favor ‘im quite a bit.”

Paul glanced up at John through his lashes, some kind of coy smile playing at his mouth. He knocked John’s hand from his shoulder and sifted through the small stack of records he’d accumulated. John begrudgingly assumed now would be an appropriate time to pull his trousers back up.

“Least you’re a bloke with a good taste in music,” he said, skimming the back of _Blonde on Blonde._ John smirked when he noticed Paul’s eyes flick to where he was sorting himself out.

“And men,” John added with a wink. “And I’d say you do too considering how hard you must’ve been watching me to see me nickin’ all that.”

“Oh, well that’s how you get ‘em, you know. They come in all confident and cocksure like yourself,” he poked John’s chest with the corner of an LP, “and that’s when I play the part—be the inattentive shop-keep and they think they’ve got it in the bag.”

He waltzed back towards the counter, and John found himself tagging along as if on a leash.

“So, how often do you catch a crook, then?” he asked, mirroring him by leaning an elbow on the counter top.

Paul looked up, thoughtful, but came across confident. “I’d say nine times out of ten.”

“And that one time out of ten?”

“I let ‘em go.”

“Well, what am I?” John leaned closer, drawn by the proximity. “A one out of ten or a nine out of ten?”

Voluntarily or not, Paul’s eyes flitted over John’s body before a flirtatious grin creeped onto his lips.

He placed his chin in his hand, eyes aglow, and murmured, “I’d say you’re a ten out of ten.”

John hummed and nodded. “Is that a come-on?”

The music faded out, played through some kind of tunnel with John on the unreachable end of it. The lighting seemed to dim, cowering at the iridescence of Paul's eyes. And as they moved closer yet, John wondered how he’d ever find any other bloke attractive again.

“Smart thief like yourself should be able to tell, shouldn’t ‘e?” Pushing the records towards John across the polished surface, he added, “You know you’re gonna have to buy these since they were near your bits and all, right?”

John tsked and shook his head. “Ohh, that’s no good, you see. Haven’t got the money, have I?”

“Well, I suppose you’re gonna have to find some other form of payment,” Paul whispered, eyes locked on John’s lips. So close he could almost taste him.

But almost wasn’t good enough.

“S’pose I am.”

Only a hairsbreadth apart, John closed the gap between them. The kiss was chaste, almost experimental in nature—their lips pressed softly and a sigh fell gently against the side of John’s nose. Paul’s lips clung to his, feather light and utterly relaxed. When they parted, there lingered the imprint of lips against his own, a stranger’s kiss. All at once, it seemed like the most natural feeling in the world. Paul swallowed and John followed the movement with a pang of want.

“You usually the type for a tryst?” he asked, his eyes fixated back on Paul’s lips, forever puckered for more.

“More or less,” Paul responded. His voice sounded strained, choked from a swelling lust.

“Lovely. Hope you won’t mind me doin’ this, then—”

And with little reserve, John leaned back in. He placed a hand at Paul’s waist and immediately made it clear he was in no mood for modesty. But when an answering tongue met his own, he knew they were already far from hesitation.

Paul grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him towards him until John’s body pinned him against the counter. John chuckled onto his lips, giddy from the enthusiasm and intoxicated by the sweet taste in his mouth. He knew vaping was a trending alternative to smoking, and though there was no nicotine, John welcomed the addiction of kissing him.

Paul hummed and smiled and tossed his arms around John’s neck as though it were natural. John wondered if it possibly was. Snogging a stranger wasn’t personally something he did everyday, unless maybe he had a pint in his hand and a loose bird on his arm. Blokes were the tough shells to crack.

Knowing he finally had one—a sober one, at that—John held him tighter and kissed him harder. Even though it shouldn’t have been surprising, the soft give of Paul’s lips staggered John’s brain. When a hand pushed into his already messy hair,  he gathered enough strength in his lust-loosened arms to lift Paul by his bum and thighs and sit him on the counter top, their lips hardly parting.

John instantly thirsted for the stretch of his neck and marked it with teeth and tongue, remiss of permission. Paul chuckled and it vibrated against John’s lips. Encouraged, he ran his hand up the other’s thigh, cursing the tight jeans no matter how well he filled them.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Paul insisted, though hushed it was.

John merely kissed his way to his ear and murmured, “What?”

“We can’t do this here,” but his hand contradicted his words, still combing through John’s hair, “I could get a customer any minute. One who actually pays.”

There was a smile in his voice, and though John still had his face pressed to his neck, he knew that beautiful face conveyed pleasure.

John pulled away and looked up at him with hazed eyes. “C’mon, baby, don’t stop me now,” he pleaded, voice husky. “You got some kinda room in the back?”

Paul looked at the front door thoughtfully, his kiss-bitten lip trapped between his teeth. Finally, he hopped from the counter and walked to the door. He flipped the red sign hanging on the door, now indicating he was on a break. John smirked when Paul turned around; the latter rolled his eyes to deflect from his amused smile and grabbed John’s hand as he passed him.

Their fingers slotted perfectly and Paul tugged him behind the counter, somewhere towards the back of the shop. Too sunken in libido to actually pay attention to where they were going, John mindlessly trod behind with heavy footsteps. And as Paul pushed him against the door with sudden force, he surrendered with ease. Smiling his acquiescence, he reciprocated the ensuing kiss wholeheartedly.

He knew absolutely nothing about Paul—his favorite color, his birthday, what makes him laugh, Christ, _his last name_ —or what they would do in the room they eventually fell into with a fit of giggles. But any arising doubts quaked beneath his fiery need for touch. Though there may come a day he’d ache to learn these quirks and details, something told him they weren’t important right now.

The room was dark, Paul having not bothered to turn the lights on. But the glow of his cheeks and his bright hazel eyes illuminated the deepest shadows of the corners.

John cupped his cheek, full and soft in his palm, and stopped himself from marveling too long before leaning in to kiss him. After a moment’s tenderness, Paul kissed intently. He backed John to the nearest wall, hands sliding up his shirt and mapping the low contours of his back. His fingers moved deftly until they had circled to the front, where his knuckles dug against John’s stomach and his fingertips lingered just beneath the fabric.

John’s muscles jumped like live wires, but he abated his anticipation with the distraction of Paul’s tongue in his mouth. However, when lips moved to his jaw and fingers remained stagnant at his belt, he couldn’t help but implore attention to the place he needed it most.

“C’mon, darling, your hand’s already been in my trousers once today,” he cooed over the wet kisses at his neck. “What’s once more?”

Paul laughed and bestowed a final fleeting kiss before raising his head to look at John. His wild-eyed expression nearly blinded John from the words he spoke.

“ _You’re_ the one paying _me_ , remember?”

John’s lips curled into a devilish smirk and, with two strong hands at his waist, he pulled Paul flush against him. He catalogued the subsequent small gasp as one of many more sounds he’d strive to pull from the boy. In a dizzying maneuver, John flipped their positions—Paul now deliciously pinned to the wall with his fingers still trapped inside the top of John’s jeans.

Similarly pinning him with a heady gaze, John stroked his hands up Paul’s stomach, ensuring the bulge pressed to his hip stayed insistent and throbbing by skimming fingertips over his nipples. He flicked his tongue across his lips and heat pooled at his gut when those beautiful eyes fluttered.

Craving a kiss but shying away from lips should pleasured notes escape them, John lowered his head to Paul’s neck. He sucked at the skin until it swirled to the confusing colors of a moment’s sudden passion.

“This is absolutely mad,” Paul breathed, craning his neck for John’s lips. John hummed, a titillating sweetness on his tongue.

“Don’t think about it too much, mate. Never does any good,” he said, hardly removing his mouth enough to speak. The words resonated into Paul’s neck, and he smiled and pushed a hand into John’s hair, keeping him in place.

Without entirely noticing himself, John’s hand had slipped into Paul’s trousers, now fingering at the line between strangers and accomplices in lust. The heat there drew to his hand like a magnet, and John could almost feel the weight of him in it.

But he was hesitant. As bothersome as the thought felt in his mind, Paul wasn’t his. He didn’t know what would feel good to him and what would feel intrusive. What John wanted was a sign. Something to say this was nothing but right, that it could still fall in their favor if they dropped it with steady hands. And when he lifted his head as though to ask for one, he hardly had time to blink before Paul nodded in a slow, reassuring motion.

Internally elated, John kissed him and broke the dreadful barrier. Paul tossed his head back against the wall with a moan and fisted one hand into John’s hair and the other in his shirt. Slow and firm, John stroked him, gauging every reaction rewarded from the twist of a wrist. Fringe draped onto his lashes, Paul still tried to hold eye contact; but indirectly pulled by John’s fist, they fluttered shut.

Not completely selfless, John also subtly took care of himself by rubbing against the sharp bone of Paul’s hip. Wanting Paul closer to himself than the cold wall, he cupped his bum and pulled him to his chest. Paul hooked an arm around John’s neck and a finger under his jaw to lead him in for a kiss.

Control slipped. John lost himself, sweet and steady, like he’d never owned any self-reserve in the first place. With his bottom lip cushioned between Paul’s, it was hard to ignore how intoxicatingly he kissed. He kissed like he wanted John to know what the last one would feel like—what he would be missing if he left and never came back.

“Fuck, Paul,” John breathed, tightening his grip on the boy’s backside.

Through choppy breaths, Paul managed, “Best lunch break I’ve had all week.”

John laughed and kissed his cheek, something he realized in hindsight was probably too intimate. Their snog faltered to a sloppy brush of lips, but John restored finesse with quickened strokes. With that, Paul’s mouth slackened against John’s until the only thing he could do was rest his forehead against John’s shoulder. As he panted and moaned against him, John saw him getting closer, squirming against the wall or digging his fingers a little too hard into John’s bicep.

And on a whim, John dropped to his knees and wrapped his lips around him just before Paul came.

“Ohhh, _fuck yes,”_ Paul groaned, low and throaty enough to nearly make John cream his pants from his voice alone.

Instead, he closed his eyes and bobbed his head, taking as much as he could each time he eased back down. Knowing what a knee-trembling combination it was, he hummed and pressed his tongue along the underside of Paul’s cock when he worked back towards the tip.

When the hot breaths above him quickened and the thighs in his grasp trembled, it was only a matter of seconds before a tangy release slid down John’s throat. He knew the drill—swallow without thought and welcome it like a gift.

Feeling generous, he kept at it until Paul’s spent member softened in his mouth. Then he sat back on his heels and beamed up at the wrecked boy before him. His eyes were blissfully shut, his mouth was agape with pleasure, and his body slumped against the stained wall.

“Send my compliments to the chef,” John quipped thoughtlessly, patient to Paul’s obvious need of recuperation. His voice was strained, a rawness soothed with pride.

In return, Paul hummed, or moaned—John now categorized any sound he made, innocent or not, as a sinful noise—his acknowledgement. But when the spent lad began to look as though he were about to fall asleep on the spot, John spoke up again.

“So, um…you’re not really gonna leave me hangin’, are ya?”

Looking utterly debauched, Paul opened his eyes and looked down at him through his lashes. He mustered a laugh and weakly shook his head. As Paul helped lift him to his feet, John’s own knees already shook in eager anticipation.

Staggering out of the small room with a crooked smile, John tried to casually zip himself up. Paul sauntered behind him and whistled a tune as he made his way back to the counter. As though back to business as usual, he switched the record on the player to a The Lumineers album. Turning around, he gathered the stack of records they’d abandoned and grabbed a plastic bag brandishing their company name. John frowned as he stuffed them inside.

“What am I, just a cheap prozzie, then? Just gonna send me on my merry way after all that?”

Not expecting an outburst, Paul looked up with raised eyebrows. A grin graced his lips. He cradled his chin in his hand, eyes hooded, and mumbled, “Well…what else do you want?”

John leaned across the counter, always enticed by the freedom of choice.

“I want to see you again.”

Paul bit his lip and looked away. “You know where I work,” he said, looking back with an almost unnoticeable blush. John smirked.

“So we just gonna keep suckin’ each other off in storage closets?”

“It’s a _work room,_ ” Paul clarified, “and you said you wanted to see me again.” He shrugged as if they were suddenly out of options.

“Yeah…so can I like…have your number?” A smile that coiled John’s stomach with affection expanded across Paul’s face. He cleared his throat. “Please…?”

Making John suffer a few moment’s scrutinizing silence, he stared at him with that same goofy smile before reaching for a card from a stack in a holder on the counter. He swiped a pen from a cup and glanced up at John before flipping the card over to scribble what John prayed to be his actual number.

Paul held it loosely between his fingers and fanned it through the air, emphasizing whatever this next step for them was—a tangible scrawl of numbers on a business card. He dropped it in the bag of records and held them out for John’s awaiting hand.

Their fingers grazed and John pictured them back in that room again, tousled hair and shaken breaths. He swallowed the lump in his throat and winked at Paul, not wanting to be forgotten before he’d even left.

“No goodbye kiss?”

“But we’re not—” He stopped himself as though the other half of his brain thought better of what he was about to say. Instead, he pursed his lips and sighed. “Fine.”

He licked his lips before meeting John halfway. The latter cupped his cheek and stroked it with his thumb. As a hand combed into his hair, John realized he was quite the hair-puller, and it only made his trousers tight again wondering in what other circumstances Paul would do so.

For a few moments, their lips stayed locked across the counter strewn with dusty records and uncapped pens. Finally, Paul pulled away with a final peck.

“You better call me,” he whispered, a small, tempting gap still between them.

John chuckled and slowly stepped away. “Bye bye, Paulie,” he said, the ambiguity grounding his mystique as he walked towards the entrance.

He sensed Paul’s eyes following him, tracing all of the muscles on his back he didn’t take the opportunity to touch. Confirming his intuition, he turned to see Paul fixated on him with his chin in his hand and his index finger wedged between his teeth.

“See ya around, Johnny boy,” he called, a fusion of fond and seductive.

With that, John flipped the sign on the door back over and waltzed out into the street.


	2. Dancing Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You are the dancing queen. Young and sweet. Only seventeen"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this...got out of hand. i'm deathly afraid of this chapter. it’s either a hit or miss tbh, but I had no plot planned after chapter one, so I tried. nonetheless, i'm continuing by popular demand, and i want to thank you all so much for the reception from chapter one. 
> 
> also, shout-out to my writing squad: [prettymacca](https://prettymacca.tumblr.com/) and [distinguished-like](http://distinguished-like.tumblr.com/). they are like the most supportive friends i could ask for when it comes to my shitfics, and you should definitely check out their work..it's the bee's knees. (you can reach all of us at your local [tumblr](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com/)).
> 
> and finally, merry belated christmas and happy holidays to all of you! also happy new year bc i won't be back for a while!

With a towel positioned haphazardly on his head, John lie splayed across his bed in a blank stare at his ceiling. It was so close—right there on the nightstand, just within reach. He turned his head to look at it, ten numbers etched in beautiful penmanship calling out to him. A taunt, a moan, a reminder.

His phone sat face down on his chest. When he picked it up, the glow of message and Instagram notifications blinded his eyes. He sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair.

Suddenly impatient with himself, he whispered, “What the fuck are you waiting for, Lennon?”

Before his courage withered or blew away in the gusts from his ceiling fan, he snatched the card from his nightstand and added Paul as a contact in his phone.

After punching the number in, he faltered at what he should actually label the boy. There was the obvious decision to simply put his name, but that was boring to John. He deemed everyone important person in his phone with ridiculous names surrounded by an unnecessary amount of emojis. After their morning together, Paul definitely deserved a spot among John’s VIP contacts.

He tossed a few names around in his head before finally deciding on ‘Paulie with the Thick Prick’ accompanied by an eggplant and peach emoji on either side. He assumed there’d come a time in the future where he’d put something a tad more heartfelt, but for now he wanted to remember Paul as he was: a fabulous arse and a great suck.

He bit his lip on the smile growing at the sight of Paul’s information in his phone. He’d waited until the wee hours of the night to even consider texting or calling him, not wanting to seem too desperate despite the fact that Paul _wanted—asked—_ to be called. And now a fuzzy feeling niggled in John’s gut at the mere thought of doing it.

A feeling he hoped to abate as he stuffed his towel over his face and screamed into it.

A knock sounded at his door.

“John, is everything alright in there?”

Not caring to remove the towel from his face, muffled, he called back, “‘M fine, Mimi. Just had some Indian food, is all.”

“You really should be more mindful of what you put in your body, John.” As she spoke, her voice faded behind her footsteps shuffling down the hall.

John thought it was for the better, not trusting himself for spilling a quip about just exactly what was ‘in his body’ some hours ago.

God, he needed to talk to him.

If the lad wanted nothing more than a friend with benefits, John wanted to be at the top of the list of considerations. John didn’t even know what he personally was looking to gain from this besides fabulous sex. A relationship seemed ideal, but he never found himself lucky enough to snag one. The toxic type of blokes he was drawn to were never ones to stick around for more than a few months.

But John was never so bubbly and anxious when thinking about those other guys. And it was those feelings that told him maybe Paul was different. In the line-up of sharp jaws and brash voices, there was a boy with kind eyes and soft features. Paul could either be the greatest thing to happen to him, or the most heartbreaking thing to lose.

He took a deep breath and opened his messages app.

After creating a new chat, he typed out _“so when’s the next best time to come steal from u?”,_ adding a winking emoji for a casual air. Mind still reeling, he decided to send a second one: _“or..u know, suck ur dick”._

But suddenly scared shitless over what he’d just done, John threw his phone across the room where it landed in front of his door with a thud. Wide-eyed, he stared at it from a distance, uncertain of the reaction he wanted to see from it.

His heart pounded in his chest, damning kicks that strengthened with every passing second his phone’s screen remained black. Just when he had the urge to scream into something again, the screen lit up and his default ringtone sounded, reaching his ears like an angel’s breath.

A sudden fire under his ass, he leapt from the bed, but got tangled in the sheets along the way. Blankets trapping his legs, he plummeted halfway to the floor, his bottom half still hanging on by the linens encasing it while his forearms and face knocked to the carpet below.

Some yard away, his phone continued screaming at him, Paul’s pictureless name bright against the screen.

John’s life was really fucking unfair.

Feeling very similar to a mother who summons the power to lift a car off of her trapped children, he kicked his way out of the sheets with the strength of ten hours’ swelling lust and army crawled to the phone. His finger reached the screen before the rest of his body did, and he swiped the answer button in the nick of time.

“Hey, beautiful,” he called from afar, a goofy smile on his face, hoping to make up for the awkward distance with a suave greeting. No matter how far his ear was from the receiver, he didn’t miss the instant reply.

_“You’ve got some nerve, John.”_

Frowning, he finally grabbed his phone and held it to his ear. Not caring to stand from the floor, he dug his elbows into the carpet and scrambled his brain to piece together Paul’s meaning.

Coming up short, baffled, he asked, “Huh?”

 _“Not only do you come in my store with the intent to steal me hard-earned goods, but you also proceed to beg for my number, only to call me at midnight—all the while_ knowing _I have no way to contact you first.”_

Taken aback, John remained quiet for a few moments, mentally catching up to all that was said.

After a pause apparently too long for Paul’s liking, a hesitant _“...Hullo?”_ echoed down the line.

John exhaled a laugh and hung his head between his shoulders, a drop in relief. He had at least known Paul long enough to realize the dramatic spiel was mostly in jest. But he could only hope one part of Paul was genuinely upset he hadn’t rang him sooner.

Rather than revealing he was too damn nervous to actually do so, John instead said, “Paul, it’s only ten, darlin’. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

 _“I don’t think that’ll be a problem considerin’ I’m not wearin’ any,”_ he replied rather casually and suddenly calm from his tirade.

John’s eyebrows shot up. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to be wrapped in the sheets with him.

Quickly recovering from his surprise, he straightened up and a leer quirked his mouth.

“Well, I guess that defeats the purpose of my ‘what’re you wearing’ line.”

 _“Just saving us some time, Johnny, that’s all.”_ He heard the flirtatious smile in Paul’s voice, pictured it lazy and curving the corners of his mouth.

“So, it’s that kinda call, eh? ” John murmured down the phone, low and seductive. “You try’na have phone sex with me? Telefuck? Phone bone?”

A quiet, boyish chuckle sounded down the line; John bit the smile on his lip. _“Believe it or not, my dick isn’t small enough to fit through the speaker.”_

“Oh, I would know, wouldn’t I?”

 _“I’m hoping you can’t_ forget _.”_

How right he was. No thought was important enough to occupy John’s brain for longer than two minutes now that Paul had entered his life, a refreshing streak of blue against the looming grey of all else; it drove him towards the kind of madness he didn’t necessarily care to escape.

He rolled onto his back and slid a hand up his shirt, rubbing his stomach. His hair pooled onto the carpet, auburn curls pillowed by the creamy white. With it being quieter on the line now, he heard faint music filtering in to join their conversation, something low and bass-driven. He had no idea where Paul was, but suddenly craved to be there with him.

“Seems like my cock won’t _let_ me,” he continued with their flirtatious dialogue. His hand trailed closer to it, already enticed by the topic of conversation.

There was rustling on the other end, then, softly, _“Same, Johnny. You got quite the mouth on you.”_

The heat of those words practically tickled John’s ear, warming his abdomen until he had to push his shirt higher up his stomach for the cool touch of his room. He closed his eyes and groaned.

“Look, love,” he began, voice thick, “I don’t wanna delve into all this if you’re not gonna be the one to take care of what you’re startin’.”

Surprisingly, sex wasn’t the only thing on John’s mind. If he could just have Paul with him to hold and marvel at, snuggled safe and warm in a blanket with dim lighting as the backdrop to their smiles, it’d feel just as good as any fervent fingers on his skin.

 _“Ooo, Johnny’s a hair trigger, eh?”_ Paul giggled—a flirty, lazy thing—but relented the inadvertent torture. _“Alright, babe, whatcha wanna talk about, then?”_

John’s stomach fluttered at the pet-name, at the stupidly adorable giggle and the lips it came from.

“Well, I suppose you could answer the question I sent you just before you decided to jump down me throat.”

_“Since when have you minded anything of mine bein’ down your throat?”_

“Oi, you’re doin’ it again,” John warned. “Focus, lover boy.”

_“Right, right, sorry. You just bring out the worst in me, Johnny.”_

John sighed and distracted himself from thinking about what bringing out the _best_ in Paul would look like. “Answer the question, love.”

_“Me manager, Brian, s’got me swamped at the store right now. Buuut, I suppose I could squeeze you in on Saturday. I’ll be gettin’ off at five then.”_

“And what, pray tell, shall we do?”

_“Well…how do you feel about good music in grotty pubs?”_

John smiled. "Feel like they’re a second home."

_"Fancy goin’ to one, then?"_

"You mean do I fancy seein’ you piss drunk and swayin’ yer hips? The answer will always be ‘yes’, my dear lad."

Paul laughed, something John assumed to be a blanket muffling the boisterous noise. He smiled himself and clung to the edge of his laughter, knowing he was one beautiful misstep away from falling for him entirely.

Eventually, their voices drifted softer down the line, intermingled with sleep, but hanging by the bare thread of excitement from whispering nonsense to one another.

In the middle of a story from his youth, John paused long enough to hear a gentle snore. He smiled fondly when he realized he was losing his audience, but couldn’t care less when the reaction sounded as adorable as Paul dropping into sleep.

“Paul?” he asked quietly, partly hesitant to rouse him at all.

When he received no answer, he tried again, more insistent.

Finally, _“Mmm?”_

A smile that wouldn’t fade, John wore it unabashedly. “Gettin’ tired yet, love?” he whispered.

He made a sound lost between a hum and a sigh. Through a yawn, he managed, _“No, no, ‘m good.”_

Rustling followed, and John imagined him curled in his blankets, subconsciously lulled by John’s voice and stories, his soft features dropping by the blissful pull of sleep. John’s mind was nearly in a similar state, but it ran rampant with thoughts and hopes—proving he may find no sleep at all.

“You are, though. Go to sleep, baby.”

A fussy noise pushed through him, and John’s sleep-deprived brain wanted to weep.

 _“‘M not tired, Johnny. Jus’ keep talkin’, I’m listenin’,”_ he mumbled, words slurred and spilling like honey.

John took his promise with a grain of salt, and replied, “Paul, ‘m gonna hang up now so you can get some rest. Okay?”

 _“Nooo. Don’ go yet,”_ he pleaded, sounding more childlike and obstinate by the second. _“I…I gotta…tell you somethin’.”_

He sighed but obliged. “What?”

_“You got good eyes.”_

John frowned, a small grin tugging at his lips; he knew stalling when he heard it. Beyond that, however, he had no idea what Paul meant by his words; if the context was in terms of vision, John’s was right shabby. But before he could argue with the dozing lad, Paul clarified.

 _“Like…they’re pretty n’ all tha’. Beautiful.”_ He giggled. _“Yeah, tha’s the word.”_

John bit his lip and rubbed a hand over his face. Butterflies swarmed his stomach by the fistfuls until his breathing fell as softly as the beats of their wings.

“Good night, Paulie,” he whispered.

 _“Mm, night, Johnny,”_ came Paul’s murmured goodbye, and John accepted it like a kiss.

The line died and so did a part of John. The part in the stark center of his chest that withered and squirmed when remiss of contact from this lad he was learning to care for.

Brutal and unrelenting, sleep barely came to John that night.

*** ~ * ~ ***

“Welcome to Spins and Needles.”

Yet again in tune with the door chime, the greeting sounded the same, save for its distant travel from the back of the store. But this time John awaited it with eager ears. His boots thudded against the tiles until they led him towards the source of that angelic voice.

He stood beside a display shelf, eyeing Paul’s squatted form and shaggy hair. The lad’s arse looked a handful smaller compared to what John had felt in his hands days prior, but a leer painted his lips all the same at seeing this boy again.

Donning a naughty smirk, John snuck up behind him with light footsteps.

He squatted down to Paul’s level and, in a swift move, held him close with his left arm circling his waist and his right hand covering his eyes. The eyebrows drawing together beneath his palm were plenty thicker than those he remembered seeing on Paul.

The thin frame posed resistance in his arms, squirming to simultaneously gain balanced footing and escape John’s grasp. Taking no concern over the struggle, John smiled and pressed his lips to the lad’s ear.

“Little birdie told me if I corner you in a storage room for long enough, you’ll give a lad quite the discount,” John murmured, lips tickling the skin.

“What the _fuck,_ mate?!” came the cry from lips just beneath his hand.

John frowned as a voice much gruffer and an accent much thicker than Paul’s practically punched him in the face.

Before his mind had time to process what was happening, John’s hand was slapped away and he was pushed backwards onto his arse. He caught himself with palms pressed to the cold tiles. Desperately pulling his glasses from the inside pocket of his leather jacket, John scrambled to push them onto his face, and realization shone through the lenses as soon as they settled over his eyes.

Looking between a hysterical Paul perched on the counter, iPhone in hand, and a pissed off _definitely not Paul_ towering over him, John, eyes wide, managed, “Oh! Oh, shite!”

“I’m only sixteen, arsehole. I’m not goin’ any-fuckin’-where with you,” the lad responded, doing little to disguise the disgust in his voice.

The words threw Paul into a greater fit of laughter at the front of the store. Phone lowering from its position aimed at the two lads, he slid from the counter and onto the floor whilst slinging an arm around his own stomach.

John rose from the floor, frowning from embarrassment and vainly trying to ignore Paul’s manic laughter roaring nearly as loud as the music playing through the speakers. The sound greeted his ears, beet red as they were, like a hammer taken to steel. Though sharp, cheery, and perhaps adorable in any other given situation, Paul’s laughter furthered the rapid, chagrined beats of John’s heart.

“Oh, piss off. I’m nineteen, not ninety. And I’d still be ‘avin’ naught to do with your scrawny arse even if I were,” John argued.

“Well that one there is only seventeen,” he tossed a hand towards Paul at the front, “so keep yer perverted paws off ‘im too.”

The hapless victim stood with his hands on his hips, eyebrows nearly a monobrow above his piercing glare. John cursed the similarities he held to Paul—the boyish face, thick hair, and dizzying length of legs—and the fact that he was too blind to notice their differences sooner.

As the realization of the boy’s thin frame ran a second lap through his mind, John could hardly stop himself before he uttered, “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I just seduced a fuckin’ skeleton.”

Paul howled with laughter, a Converse-clad foot stomping against the tiles in hilarity. A small grin was born onto John’s lips at the noise, and he cut his eyes to see the gorgeous lad writhing on the floor. His grey beanie and black skinny jeans undoubtedly gathered the dust once brushed from neglected records.

It was a sight John could no longer find himself upset with.

He made his way towards the counter and bypassed the other boy’s sneer like it was just another album cover in a crate.

Just as he made his way down the aisle, the infamous door chime sounded. John spared a look to the sorry bastard freshly exposed to the shop turned loony bin.

“Wel—ha ha—welcome…oh, fuck it,” Paul sputtered, waving a hand about in lack of concern for a greeting.

“Oi! And you think  havin’ a sack o’ potatoes pressed to me back was a welcome weight?” the other lad called after John, head turned but feet frozen in place. Scoffing and shaking his head, he bent down to pick up a stack of LPs before finally joining the two boys at the front.

“This your type now, McCartney? Oh, real classy, that,” he added whilst circling the counter. The records in his hand landed on the countertop with a thud, and he soon began sorting them into piles for cleaning.

John ignored the sarcasm but silently took note of the last name, and nudged Paul in the side with his foot.

“Oi,” he began, amusement in his voice “ weren’t so quiet when I was gropin’ Skindiana Bones over there, were you?”

Higher pitched but losing steam, giggles bubbled from Paul’s lips and accompanied the music in the air like a backing harmony. He removed the forearm he’d tossed over his eyes and began whisking away the tears brimming at them.

“Fucking…,” a few chuckles burst loose before Paul took a breath and continued, “fucking hell, George, that’s more of a greeting than I got first day.”

“Yeah? Well, fuck the both of you. If we ‘ad a fuckin’ HR, I’d report your arse for harassment.”

“I don’t even work here.”

“Oh, so he’s unemployed, too.” George shrugged, his fucks flying out of the window with every passing disappointment he found with John. The latter fought the strong urge to jerk him across the counter and off of his high horse.

“Excuse you, but I have…a hobby,” John argued weakly.

If George considered arsing around with a bunch of mates in an art studio and participating only when motivated whilst earning sparse pay a job…well, John worked his arse off. But considering there was no résumé requirement, background check, or drug test to absolutely skewer his chances, John wasn’t too sure of his employment status at the moment either.

Leaning over the counter with an air of apathy, the younger lad said, “Just get off of Grindr, Paul, yeah?”

“Hey—” Paul called from the floor.

“Don’t think he needs advice from the talking twig, mate.”

“Well, the talking twig is his best mate and official life coach as of this moment.” He flipped John the V before directing his attention back to Paul. “Paul, get off Grindr.”

“George, we didn’t even meet on Grindr.”

Stuck in his own world of stacking records, he ignored the news and instead interrogated John with a fresh question.

“What’s your name, then? Please tell me he _at least_ knows that.”

“Ohh, I knew we forgot something,” Paul joked.

John kicked him. “It’s John,” he supplied instead.

“Just stops there, then?” George asked, glancing up beneath the bush of his brows.

“John _Lennon,”_ he elaborated with a sneer. “Not that I want it fallin’ off your tongue.”

“Wait,” Paul interjected, tone suddenly serious. “You’re John Lennon?”

His head was adorably cocked to the side, his hair shaping his face as it peeked beneath his beanie.

John resisted the urge to hug him breathless, and said, “Well, I didn’t make it up, son.”

A stack of records slammed to the counter, followed by George’s thick head of hair. “Oh, Christ, Paul, you didn’t even know his _last name?”_ he grumbled, thoroughly disapproving.

John looked back to Paul and noticed a faint blush dusting his cheeks as he bit the inside of one of them. Faintly, John wondered how typical it was for Paul to shack up with a stranger on the spot.

But the lad disclosed nothing, and instead deflected the topic by continuing, “I got a mate named Ivan who’s mentioned you before.” He paused and looked away almost sheepishly. “Said I might quite like you, actually….”

George finally lifted his head, struck by a sudden realization. He looked utterly drained from all that’d occured in the last fifteen minutes, and John wondered if he hadn’t perhaps broken him.

“If it wasn’t through Ivan, how’d you two meet, then?” he asked.

An understanding silence trailed behind the stare exchanged between the two boys in question.

Splayed comfortably and carelessly on his back, Paul gazed up at John through the veil of misty eyes; laughter tapered away, but a smile lingering as its evidence.

Mouth comically twisted to ward off his own smile, John cocked an eyebrow at the other lad.

Paul bit his lip and raised his arms out for John. Like a smitten slave, John obeyed the unvoiced plea and grabbed his hands to pull him from the floor.

No sooner had Paul made it to his feet, than he hooked his arms around John’s neck. He fell into his embrace easily, and John held his waist securely.

“That’s a story for another day, Geo,” Paul answered softly, his eyes never leaving John’s.

Paul’s arms were heavy on his shoulders, his weight real in his arms, and John couldn’t help but think _this_ was the lad he was meant to be holding.

Tuning around, he added, “For now, I’ve gotta hit the loo, and then _we’ve_ gotta get going.” He gestured between himself and John.

George spared an unamused look before returning his attention to the LP and cleaner in his hand.

Paul walked around the counter and through the doorway leading towards the back of the shop. His jeans hugged his legs, his dark green shirt fell loosely at his sides; John watched him leave with a lecherous clench in his gut. He sighed and leaned against the counter.

With Paul out of the room, John suddenly felt out of place and even more uncomfortable than when he was stealing from the joint. He clicked his tongue and looked around the store for lack of a better way to fill his time. After about a minute of awkward silence, John cocked his head to George.

“Been in there a while, ‘adn’t he?” he said, the words clinging to his tongue to avoid the mortification of hitting the air as small talk.

Head still lowered, George simply lifted his eyes to John, dark and hooded—a look unexpectedly menacing for a boy of his size. John rolled his eyes, drummed his fingers against the wooden countertop.

“So…d’you like—”

“Nope,” George interrupted simply, suddenly dropping the task at hand and heading towards the back of the shop. John hadn’t the slightest idea whether he’d actually return.

Exasperated, he shouted after him, “I thought you were Paul!”

“Fuck you!”

“No thanks, mate, Paul already has! And it was in that room yer headin’ to now.”

He sighed and turned back around, only to be met with the shocked look of the lone customer in the shop. The man was middle-aged, grey hairs streaking the sides of his head and striking blue eyes. He stood in the same section John had looted days prior.

“I’d be careful with that set there, sir. The crafty fuckers like to sneak Madonna in there,” John vulgarly warned, tapping his nose and raising his eyebrows.

Before he could make a greater mess of himself, heaven-sent, Paul finally walked back into the main area of the store with a thick, black pea coat now wrapped around him.

John groaned in relief and instantly sped up their departure by grabbing for his forearm.

“For the love of _Elvis,_ can we please leave?” he begged, being met with soft chuckles and a pliant Paul.

“Keep an eye out for the thieves, Georgie!” Paul called as he was tugged through the entrance. He slipped his hand into John’s; they shared a knowing grin, and Paul squeezed his hand.

John squeezed back. Something told him it wasn’t the thieves they should worry about, but the beautiful lads catching them.

*** ~ * ~ ***

“Paul, this isn’t a pub.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty fuckin’ sure, babe.”

“How can you tell?”

“The giant outdoor ice skating rink full of about twenty people is a pretty big hint.”

He gave a nod. “Ahh, now I see it.”

The rink was rigged with outdoor speakers blaring a wide selection of upbeat music. The scratch of blades on ice faintly accompanied the music and laughter in the rink. Neon lights slanted across the ice, skating away in kaleidoscopic colors of blues, greens, and purples.

Paul smiled manically at him and waggled his eyebrows, making a grab for John’s arm to drag them towards the frozen circle of doom. Before they could get too far, though, John held him back by catching him around the waist and pulling him closer.

He laughed as he was turned around, and John wanted to kiss him senseless when met with the sight of his wind-bitten chubby cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked with a smile.

“I can’t skate,” John defended stupidly. Holding Paul so close clouded his mind, nearly made him forget they were at an ice rink during the start of winter in the first place.

Heedless to John’s lapse in thought, Paul asked, “Can you roller skate?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then, you should be able to ice skate.”

That logic snapped John’s brain back into gear.

“Okay, so one is skating on wheels—the best man-made invention and a fairly safe mode of transportation—while the other is basically skating on fucking _knives._ Yes, I completely see how me skills will be transferable,” he responded sarcastically.

Paul rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, are you always this cynical?”

“Honestly? Yes.”

Paul held the hands John had wrapped around his waist and began walking them backwards.

“C’mon, Johnny, it’ll be fun!” he tried.

John stared at him, feet still moving at the will of Paul’s command. He pulled a face that seemed too irresistible to be effortless—his lips wearing a pout and a grin all at once, eyebrows faintly drawn, and the hazel of his eyes making drowning in them as pleasurable as swimming.

John was ruined.

“You know what? I’m doin’ it for you.” He stopped them and rubbed a hand along Paul’s side, receiving a smile in turn. “My expectation is that it’ll be really fuckin’ romantic, but the reality is I’m prob’ly leavin’ ‘ere on a gurney.”

“That’s the spirit!”

And without further ado, Paul turned and led John towards the intimidating sea of skaters. As they approached the booth for renting skates, Paul immediately whipped out his wallet and requested two pairs of skates. After the man handed them over along with his change, John glared at him in silent discontent with not having had a chance to offer to pay.

“What?” Paul asked with a frown.

“You didn’t have to pay.”

“Oh, calm your patriarchal tits, you’ll be payin’ for the hot chocolate.” He shot John a wink and walked to a nearby bench.

Lennon lingered behind, biting his lip and fixating on the smug gait of the gorgeous lad. He felt himself slipping for this boy long before he’d ever set foot on the ice.

He joined Paul on the bench as he laced up one of his skates. The seat chilled his arse, and as he began removing his boots, the crisp December air immediately greeted his socked feet. He worked quickly alongside Paul for a few moments’ silence, knocking elbows and sharing shy smiles.

Eventually, John ventured, “Any advice for a first-timer, O wise McCartney?”

“Ermm, let’s see….” He sniffled and looked ahead in thought. “You never wanna go in dry. Always make sure the area is heavily, now I can’t stress this enough, _heavily_ lubed—”

John rolled his eyes but smiled. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Ohh, for skating, you mean?”

“Aye.” John grinned cheekily. “We’ll worry about the other later,” he added quietly, earning a slap to the arm.

Beginning more seriously this time, he instructed, “Well, you just, um, sorta keep yer feet titled in, you see?” Feet planted against the ground, he angled the both of them towards each other for demonstration. He then rose from the bench, “And try’ta move ‘em a bit like this—,” and glided his skates along the ground in a fluid, alternating motion.

John watched curiously, absorbing more in the thirty-second lesson than he ever had in years of actual schooling. With an instructor like Paul, however, he thought perhaps he would’ve paid more attention.

Convinced he’d gotten it, John slapped his thighs and gave a nod.

“Alright, Macca, prepare to be blown away.” He paused, uncertain of just how to dart to the rink with blades beneath his heels. “But…can you help me off the bench first?”

Paul chuckled and nodded.

With their shoes in one hand and an unstable Lennon wrapped around his side, Paul slowly escorted them towards the entrance of the rink. He stuffed their belongings in two cubbies as they passed them before returning his attention to John, who laughed nervously with each step.

“Ready, Johnny?”

He gazed out at the ice, blinding white and unforgiving. There were those in the rink who sped around effortlessly, and those who appeared to nearly get sliced and diced as they lay helplessly on the ground. John had no doubts about which category he’d fall under.

“Ohhh, fuck me, man. Is it too late to go back to mine for Netflix and chill?” he complained.

Paul laughed.

“Now, now, there’s always time for that, baby.” Any other time, John would’ve pounced with an innuendo at the implication, but both feet and tongue were frozen stiff. “But c’mon,” Paul encouraged, “you’ve got it!”

He maneuvered around John, who clung to the siding with the grip of a frightened child, and eased onto the ice first. Facing him, he held out a hand for the older lad. John lifted a hesitant foot, holding it in midair as he considered the consequences of placing it in the rink. In the midst of his conflict, he blocked the entrance from a cluster of children behind him, and Paul became more persistent in getting John in there with him.

“Bloody half-pints can wait there all night for all I care,” he mumbled grumpily, but inched into the rink nonetheless after a glare from Paul.

 _The Man_ by The Killers played on the speakers around them, and John had never felt like less of one in his life as he pussyfooted onto the ice.

As soon as he his blades slipped across the ice, leaving him feeling as though he’d lost control of his feet, John scrambled for the padded siding that ran along the rink. Paul stood on his skates with ease and laughed at his mate’s panic, all whilst singing along to the immodest song harmonizing around them.

His curling smile quickly faded, however, as John slowly but surely began bending his knees and lowering himself towards the ice with a look of determination.

“What’re you doing?” Paul asked, frown in tow.

“‘M crouching closer to the floor so if I fall it’ll hurt less.”

He tucked his body close to itself, knees bent and arms posed outward for balance. Eventually, he looked like he was shitting on the ice more than skating on it.

“John—bloody hell, just c’mere,” Paul called, hand thrown to his hip as he undoubtedly grew fed up with the ridiculousness.

John pushed one foot forward, testing icy waters before committing himself. As his foot moved, the other lagged behind, and he knew he wouldn’t get much farther without his face kissing the ground with blunt force.

“Nope,” he argued simply, stopped suddenly. “‘Fraid you’re gonna have to be comin’ to me, love.”

Paul sighed and shook his head, but skated over to John with a grin. It lingered as he approached, adoring and patient; the emotion in his eyes swelled to a tangible warmth. Tenderly, Paul cupped his cheeks. John’s breath lodged in his throat, forming as a lump he was afraid to swallow. As Paul leaned in, he gripped the siding, knuckles stark white against the black padding, and closed his eyes.

Their lips met, and the clench in John’s muscles loosened on contact. He brought one hand to gently hold Paul’s wrist as his thumbs stroked his cheeks. After an eternity in John’s mind, but several seconds in real time, Paul bestowed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then pulled away.

John opened his eyes—the effort astonishing—and gazed heavily at Paul’s lips.

“Trust me,” he said softly, the words a kiss of their own.

John swallowed and nodded.

Wordlessly, Paul removed John’s hand from the wall and guided it to his waist, then did the same with the other. John held him tightly, but still cautious not to hurt him. He trusted Paul and suddenly falling with him—or for him—didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

Hands still keeping John’s glued to his waist, Paul turned around and lightly ventured towards the crowd, leaving John with no choice but to follow.

John looked down, as best he could with his chest nearly flush against Paul’s back, and watched his feet mimic Paul’s movements as though in a trance. They glided as one body; the music’s bass pounded with their hearts, and the neon lights danced at their feet.

A smile graced John’s lips, as delicate as falling snow, and he wrapped his arms more fully around Paul’s stomach. He found himself melting into the younger lad, enticed by his heat and proximity. Having not yet fallen, John felt secure enough to rest his head near the crook of Paul’s neck and shoulder. Tufts of dark hair escaping beneath his beanie tickled John’s nose, and a coconut fragrance curled an enticing finger at his senses.

He sighed in bliss.

As Paul stroked a hand through John’s hair, John could practically feel the grin on his face.

“This is nice,” John mumbled into the fabric of his coat.

Rather than responding, Paul removed his hand from the auburn hair and instead linked his fingers with those around his waist.

For several moments, the boys remained interlocked. Paul became John’s anchor on the ice that, little by little, seemed a bit less threatening.

Once they’d managed to get along rather steadily for a few minutes, Paul slowed his speed, consequently bringing them to a near stop. Noticing the change in pace, John lifted his head and planted his chin on Paul’s shoulder. The younger lad turned his head to the side, gave John a close view of stubble peppered along his jaw that he ached to run his fingers across.

“Wanna come out from behind me now?” Paul asked, eyeing John sidelong. The latter sighed and his arms contracted tighter around Paul’s waist.

“Actually, I could get rather used to it back here,” he murmured, the words hardly making it past his teeth. His voice had taken on a sleepy tone, naturally seductive.

Paul breathed a laugh through his nose, and John immediately knew he’d signed over all future decision-making when he’d nicked those records the first day they met. So, like a good lad, when Paul carefully guided him to his side, John went without question.

“Damn,” John clicked his teeth, “I miss the view already.”

They held hands, warm and cold all at once, and circled the rink at a snail’s pace for John’s benefit. He began to feel like a bit of a nuisance. But every time he thought he was holding Paul back from a good time, he’d glance over at the lad to see him smiling and mouthing along to the song breezing around them.

In the middle of _Dancing Queen_ they locked eyes; John pulled a spastic face, blind to the mischievous glint hidden in Paul’s eye. And once he noticed, it was too late.

On a whim and on a laugh, Paul said, “Spin, Queenie!”

Before John had time to comprehend the command, his legs buckled from their sudden stop, and the slide of his skates tossed him off of his feet entirely. Paul in tow, the two toppled to the ice like broken marionettes, strings cut and legs splayed. Paul’s weight pinned John down as his head rested on his stomach. Lennon wanted to think it rather nice, but the pain coursing down his spine and to his arse supplied his brain with an arsenal of profanity and nothing more.

“Bloody hell, ‘re you okay?” Paul groaned and pressed his face into John’s stomach.

“Peachy,” John managed. “You?”

In response, he only received a muffled noise that John prayed to God wasn’t the beginning of a cry fest. He lifted his head with a frown and instantly dropped it back against the floor when he saw Paul’s cheeks pressed with laughter instead of streaked with tears. Before he knew it, his own stomach shook and spasmed as giggles bubbled from within him uninhibited.

As Paul pushed himself higher up his chest, reached his face and kissed his jaw, John pondered how the two of them came to be in that moment. One sunny afternoon he vainly attempted to steal from a hole-in-the-wall record store, only to be crashed on an ice rink with the victim of his theft sprawled atop him and kissing his cheek mere days later.

The universe concurrently loved and hated John Lennon.

Paul continued to press soft kisses to John’s face, scrunched with quiet laughter. Sobering but still wearing a smile, John turned his head and caught his lips. They kissed simply, pecks of kisses exchanged, heartbeats skipping as they returned for more. But, wanting more of him, John brought a hand to his nape, and Paul tilted his head to deepen the kiss, a breath of a moan escaping.

The world around them seemed to slink past in slow motion—the white noise of a gently falling snow. The people and places around John tucked into the subconscious folds of his mind, mere background, while Paul seized the attention of the rest of him. As the neons slanted over their twisted bodies, all he could feel, all around him, was Paul—hovered above; on his tongue; hand at his jaw. For the moment, John didn’t care to exist any other way.

But, inexplicably breathless, Paul pulled away. He brushed their noses, and the small gap between them stole John’s breath all over again. Eyes loosely shut, they shared the air they couldn’t seem to find on their own.

Recuperated, John applied pressure to Paul’s neck, eager for a second go, but the younger lad turned his head as he was urged forward. John’s stomach dropped for fear he’d rushed things or misread the signs. He peeled his eyes open—sensed Paul’s still closed—and awaited some kind of inevitable rejection.

However, mouth by John’s cheek, Paul whispered, “I don’ wanna have a stiffy in a park.”

John breathed a laugh threaded with a sigh and leaned his head towards the warmth of Paul’s. With Paul in a similar state, John felt less idiotic for being consumed by the kiss…by that boy.

“Aye,” he licked his lips and tried to find his words, “might leave ‘ere a sex offender, you will.”

Paul chuckled and nuzzled his cheek. “Rather just leave here with _you.”_

John swallowed, shaken from their previous exchange and the words Paul seemed to speak naturally. Fuzzy inside and nearly hating it, he brushed his fingers through the fine hairs tapering at the other boy’s nape.

Crushing sentimentality with the heel of his boot in typical Lennon fashion, he responded, “Right, then. Gonna be needin’ the gurney to do that, I’m afraid. Seems me arse is frozen solid and an official monument dedicated to the park.”

Paul smiled and pushed himself onto his elbow to look him in the eyes, his own glistening like the ice. He tenderly combed his fingers through the fringe on John’s forehead, sent his eyes fluttering, before clambering off of him and onto his feet. Once standing and stable, he held his hands out for his dramatically splayed out mate.

John stared up at him, vulnerable and adorable.

“Okay…I don’t think I’ll be able to stand like that, so can you just…,” he looked to the adjacent wall, “drag me to that wall there?”

 _“Drag you_ to the wall?” Paul asked with a cocked brow. “Might get ice burn, mate.”

“We’re losin’ daylight and freezin’ asses here, sweetheart,” John rushed. He knew the absurdity of this request but couldn’t be arsed to sacrifice what remained of his dignity. Naturally, in Lennon’s head, having his mate lug him across the ice like a rag-doll seemed the way to go.

Paul shrugged, grabbed John’s wrists, and did as bid of him. Surprisingly capable, he pulled eleven stone of a hopeless lad towards the wall with impressive speed. All the while, John knew the last of his fucks were left behind in the spot he’d just occupied.

Once in the corner, he struggled to his feet like a wounded deer and made a beautiful mess of himself as he clung to the siding for dear life. Paul bit his lip on a growing smile, and John could tell the lad was caught between laughing or helping.

When he found his footing, he breathed a laborious breath.

Paul grinned smugly and shook his head fondly. “Why must bad things happen to poor thieves?”

Unthinking, John threw out a foot to kick him and immediately slipped to his knees again.

Ten minutes, and three additional falls, later the two sat on the bench that started their evening with hot chocolate in hand thanks to Lennon and the debt he owed. The sun had nearly slunk beneath the horizon, leaving behind the peculiar mix of burnt orange and a creeping black amidst its departure. The temperature dropped and left the boys huddled close on their seat but without complaint, Paul’s head cushioned on John’s shoulder, and John soaking up the nearness of him.

“Everything hurts,” John eventually mumbled. He looked down to his drink, watched the white wisp of steam trail into the cold air.

Paul lifted his head from his shoulder and softly kissed his cheek.

 _“Everything?”_ he questioned, a seductive purr, and subtly ran the hand resting on John’s thigh higher up.

John glanced at his hand, _so close._ He could still taste Paul on his tongue, no steamy liquid hot enough to singe the memory. However, feeling like a tease and a bit of a masochist, he covered his hand with his own and slotted his fingers through Paul’s.

“Oh, babe,” he began, a mock haughty ring to the words, “I don’t fuck on the first date, you know.”

Paul raised an unfairly arched eyebrow in challenge.

“Oh, but you suck on the first meet?” he countered.

Bested, John took a sip of his drink to buy time for a response. They both knew John would’ve done more than drop to his knees that first time if the offer had presented itself. He suffered another bout of McCartney smugness in his lapse; he swallowed the smooth liquid and what remained of his ego and wit.

“Keep questionin’ me _perfectly intact_ morals, and there won’t be a second date, Macca,” he settled for.

“You think this is a date, then?”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, half concerned. John hated to think he was the only one anticipating many more nights like this one. “What else could it be?”

Paul’s demeanor changed as though a switch had been flipped, and he turned to face John more fully, a sincere etch on his face. He sat sideways on the bench with a knee pressed to the back of it and a hand still in John’s. With the palpable shift in tension, John turned his head to look at him.

“Feels more like a reunion to me.” Paul stared down at the cup in his free hand and made tiny cuts in the styrofoam with his fingernail. The black slope of his lashes, curling downward and then up again, left John nearly speechless. He rubbed the back of Paul’s hand with his thumb to soothe whatever emotion passed over his face.

“A reunion?” John asked quietly. He pushed the rim of his beanie further up to see more of those soft features.

Paul looked up at the contact. His smooth, pale skin challenged the black of night surrounding them, and his mouth hung open in an innocent manner that just begged for a kiss John wouldn’t hesitate to give.

“Yeah…,” Paul said softly after a beat. “Everything just feels too natural with you, you know? Like…maybe I should’ve known you before just four days ago or something.”

“Ahh, I see it now,” John said and looked down to play with Paul’s fingers, so slender and graceful and a welcome weight in his own.

Unfazed, Paul continued to stare at him with a frown.

“See what?”

“It’s not a reunion, love.” He looked back up and imparted with a smile, “It’s fate.”

A glimmer seemed to shine across Paul’s eyes as they glanced between John’s. John fancied it the spark of hope he himself felt. As though pulled by the string of John’s words, they found themselves leaning in. Paul pushed a hand into John’s hair and covered his mouth with his own, fusing spark and shine. John laid a hand on Paul’s shoulder and nipped at his lower lip, once chapped but now swollen and perfect. They kissed until the shared richness of chocolate was replaced with the taste of each other.

And when they broke away, the skin of lips reluctant to part, Paul whispered against John’s, “Now that’s just daft.”

John smiled and kissed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! hope it was bearable! 
> 
> wanna make a contribution to the plot? leave a comment or message me/send anons on tumblr.


	3. Lust For Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Your skin starts itching once you buy the gimmick about something called love."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at long last, I got my shit together and pumped something out for this. on accident.
> 
> A Thing™: sooo in the editing process, I began to doubt that British homes would have roofing below the windows. ya know, so people can crawl out and sit on them and shit. but I kinda realized it long after I wrote it and didn't feel like changing it bc this chapter was already completed. long story short, that's my fuck up bc I was too taken with the notion it was a cute idea annnnd I'll do more research next time :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy something somewhere in all of this. this one is gonna be the death of me. thanks for reading <3

“Elvis, James Dean, and Marlon Brando.”

John groaned. “Fucking hell, can I just fuck all of them?” He smiled as he imagined, “Christ, what an orgy _that_ would be!”

By some miracle of rock ‘n roll deities, John had convinced Paul to come back to his house. An endless slew of ‘Fuck, Marry, Kill’ occupied their time on the slab of roofing outside John’s bedroom window. Music poured outside from the radio just within, the classics soundtracking their conversations beneath starlight.

The night puffed brittle air against their skin, bare where their shared blanket had slipped away. John hadn’t the courage to tell Paul he was freezing his bollocks off, because he also hadn’t the desire to be anywhere else. Shoulder to thigh, limbs languid from whiskey pressed together firmly. Paul insisted the alcohol would satiate John’s pain from the ice, and John never declined a whiskey-soaked night with pretty boys.

Paul laughed and shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way, John, love,” he responded. He passed the bottle back to John, fingers brushing. Shy smiles pretended they hadn’t felt a thing.

“Okay, okay,” John said after swallowing. “Umm, is it wrong to kill off James since ‘e has it comin’ to ‘im anyway?”

Paul pulled a pained face, slender eyebrows furrowed and mouth drawn into a tight ring. A groan hummed past it. He slapped a hand over his eyes, and John chuckled around the lip of the bottle before removing it from his mouth entirely. Still smiling, he reached for Paul’s wrist and guided his hand away from his face.

“Aw, c’mon, no disrespect, but you gotta admit—”

“Fine, fine, it’s a valid point,” Paul relented, grinning. “What about fuck and marry, then?”

“Alright, I’d marry Elvis—”  

“God, you’re bad at this—”

“Shh! _Listen,”_ he fixed Paul with beaming eyes, ensuring the lad would hear him out. “I marry Elvis—we have the money, the music, and make love every night. I mean, why hit it and quit it when we could do it every night?” John smirked, satisfied with the logic surrounding his fantasy. “And of course I’m left with a fab fuck outta Brando. Besides, the two of us in a marriage would be a bloody ticking time bomb.”

Paul nodded whilst humming thoughtfully, a smirk quirking his lips. John stared at him, waiting for some kind of approval or validation.

Finally Paul tilted his head toward John and asked, “Who’s topping, then?”

“Pardon?”

“You and Brando. Who’s topping?”

A laugh pushed through John, and his eyebrows darted up in surprise. “Fuck of a lifetime, mate! No way I’d pass up the chance to ride that.” Paul laughed loudly, a sound colored with amber and as warm as the blanket draped over them. John was smiling at him more than anything else. “And you really think that brick wall of a man would really give me much choice?” he asked, the topic encouraging him to toss his leg over Paul’s.

With his head leaned against the siding of the house, Paul gazed at John with intoxicating eyes. A fusion of moonlight and streetlight slanted across the side of his face, accentuating his rouged-red cheeks and glistening lips. A beautiful boy through and through. Those hints of androgyny in his features were sinful; but John wasn’t a religious man, and these moments with Paul were the closest he’d ever get to heaven.

“You a bottom boy, I take it?” Paul asked, easing his way through the silence.

John prickled at the curious note in his tone.

“Oh, Macca, how forward of you,” he teased, a hand far too large to feign dainty clutching his chest. A flirtatious grin tugged at his lips, curling lazily. “You’re just gonna have to find out on your own time, you naughty thing,” he whispered, leaning in.

A hand landed on his knee, the grip firm at the fingers but loose at the palm. Paul took another slow pull on the bottle, eyes alight as they met John’s. His mouth left the lip with a soft pop.

The sight, pleasurably familiar, flickered a clip through John’s mind:

_The shadowed room of a record store. A boy unlike he’d ever seen—sunken to his knees, far from prayer but overtly reverent. A suggestive quirk to his lips as they parted lewdly. His own composure unthreading in seconds under the fervor in those eyes and the artistry of that mouth._

“Lookin’ forward to it,” Paul breathed, teasing teasing _teasing_ John with a finger that stalked across John’s cheek.  It fell to rest on his lower lip, sliding across the cracks imbedded by winter. His mouth slackened on contact, charmed by the magic trapped in Paul’s touch.

The breath escaped John in fragments. When two chilled fingertips pushed forward, seeking the warmth of John’s tongue, his eyes dropped closed. John licked tenderly, unhurried, at Paul’s fingers—taste buds invited by the tangy taste of boy, naturally sealed in his skin. Farther and farther, John drew them in, tongue curling hungrily around the lazy thrusts.

“Fucking Christ,” Paul whispered, and John opened his eyes, drunk on what he saw.

Bottom lip wedged between long teeth. Eyes softly closed. Paul wore pleasure like a second skin. John ached to feel the texture of that skin against his lips.

Slipping Paul’s fingers from between his lips, he instead threaded his own into coal-black hair before the boy could protest. John drew him in that way, hair trapped between the slits of his fingers, pulling him gently. Their lips locked, Paul’s instantly catching John’s lower one.

His hand clenched on instinct, drove deeper into the thick hair. Paul pushed out a moan; John grabbed it with his tongue, swallowed it whole. Loose slipped one of his own, an encouragement for sounds at every octave Paul could voice.

John’s thoughts fuzzed, blurred around edges. Paul’s spit-slick fingers flitted to his jaw. From there they ventured to the nape of his neck, winter-cold against the fine hairs there.

John gasped into his mouth and let himself move forward at the insistence of the hand on his neck. Before he could fully grasp the situation, John found himself straddling Paul’s thighs. The younger lad was haphazardly sloped against the panelled siding, hands sliding around and beneath John’s jumper to haul him closer yet.

Blunt fingernails drug catlike across John’s back before he jerked away with a sharp hiss.

“Jesus, fuck!” The curse broke the night air, shook the stars violently.

Paul’s eyes popped open, darkened by lust but wide with worry. “What’s wrong?”

“That hurt a helluva lot more than it shoulda,” John admitted before dropping his forehead onto Paul’s shoulder. It shook with laughter, and John couldn’t resist a smile himself. He found room for brief pants around it.

“The iceburn, you stubborn dick.” Paul nudged his shoulder with the heel of his hand. “Turn around and let’s have a look.”

This time Lennon wouldn’t be so obstinate. He turned like a good lad, bracketed by Paul’s long legs either side of him. Paul passed him the blanket before lifting the hem of his shirt and dragging it up his back.

A tsk, much like that of a concerned nurse, sounded behind John’s back.

“Got a few scratches back here, babe. Some redness.”

“Can’t say I’ve never had that happen before,” John murmured suggestively.

Paul thumped him, directly delivered it to a tender spot on John’s back. John groaned, vibrations scratching his throat and rattling gritted teeth. In return he slapped Paul’s thigh. The muscle jiggled from the force, and John hardly thought twice about leaving his hand where it lay.

Paul giggled, a drop of alcohol coloring the sound. He smoothed his hands along the raw skin of John’s back and whispered an apology. Following the words, he stamped a kiss dead in the center of his back.

The hands raising his shirt slithered around to John’s stomach. John sighed as his muscles twitched beneath doughy palms. They came to rest just below his navel, finger strokes minimal but breathtaking. Tender kisses proceeded to soothe the skin of his back. Like an acclaimed cartographer, his lips mapped every inch of skin untainted by the stinging redness. Drunken kisses were the ultimate therapy.

The cool air waned at the sudden fever of John’s skin. The hold he kept on Paul’s thigh tightened, knuckles aching to whiten in libidinous desperation against the black of his jeans. He nearly submitted to the thought when Paul’s fingers gripped at his flesh, indentations and prints forming like beauty marks. But his touch rendered John’s muscles useless, barely holding onto the tendons attached to them.

As if compelled by gravity, John sunk into his embrace. The heat flooding Paul’s chest and the coat snug on his arms sheltered John with additional warmth. His eyes slipped closed, enveloped in a cocoon of limbs and languid lust.

Paul’s hands experienced a similar gravitational push when they lowered on John’s abdomen. They flirted with the line of a tight jean waistband. John’s breath snagged in his throat, glued to his vocal chords. He swallowed thickly.

His neck elongated, a milky white stretch, as he lowered his head backwards and onto Paul’s shoulder. There, he turned and sought the cold boyish sweat against the young boy’s neck, where the effects of their touches had fevered the skin. John nuzzled at it, unabashed and head swimming. His teeth followed suit and nipped innocuously at Paul’s flesh. The whiskey had seemingly leaked through his pores, and John’s tastebuds elbowed one another for a lick of the bittersweetness.

A taste John would thirst after until his lips grew numb.

Far from it, they ventured higher up Paul’s neck, refusing to cease until they reached his earlobe. Paul turned into him, their heads lazily knocking. Self-assured hands toyed with the button of John’s trousers. Hot and heavy panting shoved past John’s lips, sticky like summer air. The crux of winter now seemed seasons away from those two boys.

As effortlessly as he’d popped the cork of their alcohol, Paul unfastened the button of John’s jeans. His hand slipped inside, only breaching the first layer of fabric, but drawing a gasp from John’s lungs just the same.

Swiftly riding the tail end of his gasp was a whine John couldn’t begin to withhold. There was something about Paul—his touch, his physique, his passion—that harnessed the power to wrangle any extent of sound from the innermost depths of John’s throat.

With the hard base of his palm, Paul rubbed at John, slow and measured. John arched his hips minimally, his thoughts narrowed to the talent of a left hand and the scent of a sweat-slick neck.

On the darkened street there were two witnesses to their steamy exchange: a mass of glittering stars and a lonesome, shadowed moon. The crescent smiled at the two boys. His eyes were closed, but John felt the luminescence curl against the length of his body. He smiled back.

Soon enough his mouth slackened altogether. The press of Paul’s hand grew more insistent, and though John was plenty willing to fuck in the street if they had to, he wasn’t so keen on furthering this charade on the roofing of the house.

“Let’s get back inside, yeah?” He dropped a kiss below Paul’s ear, traveled them across his cheek and at last to his lips. “Use the bed?”

Paul nodded, too preoccupied with squeezing John and reciprocating the kiss to respond verbally.

Despite the weight of whiskey slushing through their veins, they managed to stand, albeit shakily, and crawl through John’s bedroom window. A new atmosphere greeted them, as if a portal had been breached. Music poured, fans spun, posters flapped.

But, most significant of all, clocks ticked.

“Oh, Christ,” Paul laughed, “midnight already?”

John, having shut the window, turned to see Paul reading the time on the clock by his bedside. How odd John forgot time even existed when the other boy occupied it.

“Think I best be gettin’ home, ‘fore it gets much later.” He smiled softly, but disappointment peppered his tone.

John frowned and rushed over in an instant. The crease in his brow melted down his face until it fell to his lips, where it slunk into a childish pout.

Tenderly he cupped Paul’s cheeks, which molded into the palm of his hands as they thickened with a smile. “Tell mummy and daddy yer kippin’ at a friend’s.” The defenses and cast iron guard slipped from John like dew cascading on grass. For once, he showed desperation.

Paul nestled John’s chin between a thumb and forefinger, then pecked his lips. “Truly, I can’t, love.”

From the round speakers of his stereo, quick-tempoed drums pounded out, piano and guitar soon following in a way that seemed a posse of instruments had revolted on a prison riot.

The electrifying commencement of Iggy’s “Lust For Life”.

John’s mind expanded with the rush of a scheme. It shone in the delicious smirk at his mouth.

“Maybe I can convince you to stay.”

Wordlessly, John guided Paul, baffled as they come, to the middle of the room. He stood there and watched John roll the chair from beneath his cluttered desk. It came to a halt behind Paul’s legs, where it knocked the back of his knees in invitation to sit. John grasped his shoulders and urged Paul into the chair. Paul narrowed his eyes at his friend, half skeptical, half curious.

“John, what’re you—oh no….” He caught on. “No, you’re an absolute nut, Lennon.”

John only smiled. The lyrics spoke for him.

“Here comes Johnny _Len_ again,” Paul’s snorted throatily, only adding fuel to the outrageous fire, “with the liquor and drugs, and the flesh machine.”

John peeled the hem of his shirt up his stomach, rolling his hips with a concupiscent grin. Paul pressed a hand to his eyes, only to have one risk a naughty peek between the slits of his fingers.

“He’s gonna do another strip tease.” He approached Paul and removed his hand from his face, leading it to his hip instead. Because of their foreplay outside, the fasten of John’s jeans still remained open. Laughing quietly and shaking his head, Paul tucked his fingers in the belt loops at John’s sides. Surreptitiously he inched the jeans lower, exposing the divots of John’s hips, with his bottom lip wedged seductively between his teeth.

Picking up from his drop in the lyrics, John continued, “Yeah, somethin’ called love. Well, that’s like hypnotizin’ _cocks.”_ With heavy eyes he watched Paul, a spike of power shooting down his spine from the way he towered over him. His hands twisted within Paul’s hair, and his eyes fluttered sinfully, head rolled thoughtlessly with the movement. At a teasing pace, John lowered himself onto Paul’s lap and grinded against him emphatically.

A shiver skipped through the boy beneath him as he whispered, “Well, I’m just a modern guy. Of course I’ve had it in the _ear_ before.” He ran his tongue along the shell of Paul’s ear, earning a fierce-fingered grip to his taut thighs. “Cause of a lust for life.”

His hips churned in minimal rotations, subtle in their desperation for the pressure of Paul against him. The music droned numbly through his ears, losing shape and melody as he focused on the boy between his legs.

“For this to be a strip tease, yer still pretty overdressed,” Paul said, his low tone hardly masking the huskiness of his voice.

“Oi!” John nipped the soft line of his jaw in gentle chastisement. “I don’t come in your store tellin’ you how to sell records. Shut up and enjoy it.”

John leaned back on his lap and grabbed the collar of his shirt. The tee drug up the expanse of his back, gusts of air from the ceiling fan whipping against his skin. Immediately Paul seized the opportunity to run his hands along John’s bare chest. He squeezed his sides and framed his shoulders. John had half a mind to slap the randy lad’s hands away and scold him for touching the dancer. But even he knew this was no longer a playful lark for the two of them.

John stood, legs going wide to account for the chair between them. Understanding without a word, Paul eased John’s trousers down his hips, over the delicious curve of his arse. John closed his eyes in bliss, one hand threaded into Paul’s hair as he tattooed John’s abdomen with soft kisses. Once his lips reached the first barrier of John’s black boxer briefs, Paul took the cotton waistband between his teeth. Eyes fixated on John, and John’s own punchdrunk by the sight, he inched the material down, chin knocking against an erection that twitched in need. His face ventured lower, until he nuzzled John’s hardness with sweet abandon.

If Paul fucked off now to leave John all blue-balled and aching, John was confident he’d cry himself to sleep after cursing the lad to the darkest depths of hell.

“Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell,” he groaned. “Please tell me you’ll stay.”

Paul chuckled at the precise moment he mouthed John’s clothed cock, scattering shivers through the older lad. He pulled away with heavy-lidded eyes and said, “Love, I forgot I even planned to go.”

John smiled and sat on his lap again, a groan nearly escaping from the pleasure afforded without the constraint of his trousers. With astounding poise, his lips locked onto Paul’s and imparted vials of gratitude for the lad’s response. Firm strokes against his tongue and playful tugs on his lip kept Paul’s mouth compliant under the heat of John’s own.

The two perfected a reckless way of kissing. If the world took to crumbling, they would dance on the rubble. Soot on their cheeks and grit carved into palms, but lips as tender as nature in her heyday.

In the prime of life themselves, they both seemed keen to milk it for all it was worth. And, with the lithe tips of his toes, Paul imperceptibly scooted the desk chair across the floor, stopping when they reached the foot of the bed. He gathered the older, stockier boy in his arms and lowered the both of them onto the bed. They laughed into each other’s mouths, drunken breaths twisting like vines.

John hummed. A wistful ache within him was soothed as Paul covered every inch of his body. He raked Paul’s shirt up his back, clawing the fabric in lustful determination. The black jumper breezed to the floor. John dipped his fingers beneath the rise of Paul’s skinny jeans, a gap provided by the sinful arch of his back. Teasingly they grazed along the small patch of hair in the dimple of his lower back. And farther they travelled, until he cupped the smooth swell of his backside in a strong hand.

Heart choking in his chest from Paul’s weight, but far from complaining, John withdrew his hand and slipped two fingers between the limited gap of their kissing and into Paul’s mouth. The soft muscle of his tongue caressed his fingers. His head bobbed fluidly around the length. With Paul’s eyes, dripping in metallic sheets of lust, pinning him to the bed, John groaned and grinded hard against the body matched so well for his own.

Fingers slick and coated, he pushed through Paul’s entrance. They scissored and squirmed, careful in their exploration. Studying his face, John whispered, “Alright?”

“Yeah, yeah—s’good.” He licked his lips. “Just…get to it ‘fore I lose it here.”

“Mmm.” Yielding a dark grin, John cupped his cheek and kissed him.

A curl of his fingers, and Paul shivered. _“Shit—”_ A heavy exhale knocked him breathless. His lower half went rigid against John before laxing and pushing back against his fingers. They stroked hard against his prostate. Panting like a steam engine, Paul stuffed his face to John’s neck. Soft groans met softer skin.

“Aunt’s kippin’ down the hall,” John warned. “Keep it quiet, love.” With insistent fingers, he certainly didn’t intend to make it easy.

John figured he could come, untouched, just from watching Paul unravel to an incoherent mess. His nose tracing the shelf of John’s jaw. His legs going wide despite the restriction of jeans, so starved to have John’s fingers as deep as possible. And, _God,_ the sounds spilling from the artistry of those two fingers alone.

Fortunately, however, Paul wouldn’t leave John silently inquiring about his own state of arousal this time.

In an ardent struggle, he whipped off his skinny jeans, stubbornly clinging to his legs like two pages of a book. He lowered John’s briefs, as well, and took both of them in hand. The velvety touch was electrifying. Precome quickened the slides, and John allowed the touch of Paul’s hand and cock to consume and devour him. Mere child’s play unthreading his senses as much as a full-fledged fuck.

Paul’s mouth fell slack in his concentration, and John flicked his tongue along those sensually parted lips. Such a soft, erotic act seemed the final nudge he needed to be pushed over the edge. Paul quickened the rolling of his hips and came with a strangled moan.

Already he knew it wasn’t a feeling he would tire of—the quivers and shudders in Paul’s body as he came undone. Another moan tangled with an expletive tucked into the junction of John’s neck. _Fuck,_ the way his hand clenched around John’s dick, now lubricated with his spunk, as his ripe lips poured encouragement.

“C’mon, Johnny—c’mon, love. Let it go, baby—”  

A fierce grip around Paul’s waist, John shoved his elegant nose to the gleaming crest of his shoulder and rocked against him. His breath rose to rapid paces, until it fled his lungs all at once in a satiated sigh. He came against their slick stomachs—the two of them now joined in more ways than one.

John was gelatine against the sheets.

Mindless, his fingers skimmed the contours of Paul’s back, nails traced the boyish angles of his hips. Heated little bites of sound still fought their way out of him. He let them flow at will, unable to stop them even if he had the energy to do so.

Paul sprinkled gentle kisses along John’s cheek. Graceful fingers took his chin between the dip of forefinger and thumb, and he kissed John deeply.

When they parted, he stared into the hazel wells of Paul’s eyes, nearly drowned there, but summoned the breath to ask, “Wanna know a secret?”

Paul smiled, knocked their noses, and planted his head against John’s shoulder. “Mm, always.”

“Brando doesn’t look _half_ as appetizing now.” The words glided, like a comb, through ebony strands of hair. They slunk down and fed into Paul’s ears. John took great pride in the smile they induced.

“Bullshit!” Paul laughed. His fingertip inscribed senseless patterns to John’s naked chest. “We both know that ain’t true.”

John was prepared to argue him until he turned blue in the face, but saved his breath. Frankly, however, Marlon could go fuck _himself._ Nothing personal, of course; John just happened to be a smidgen biased. Instead of debating, he kicked off the skivvies locked around his thighs (as Paul had so graciously left them) and patted down their stomachs. The duvet soon folded its way around the snuggling teenagers.

“Your turn,” John whispered to a room filled only with diced moonlight and droning radio adverts. Oh, and of course—one breathtaking boy who made such superfluous rot disappear.

“Hm?” Sleepily he looked to John, who stroked his full cheek with a delicacy unheard of.  

“Tell me a secret.” The softest plea. Like children volleying words across pillows at a sleepover.

An airy laugh breezed from Paul’s nose. “I can’t believe I’m fuckin’ around with a bloke who tried to rob my store.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” John deadpanned. The words drifted to the ceiling as if in prayer, but collided with the tiles and dropped to the sheets. Returned to sender.

A chuckle was born at, lived on, and died against John’s sternum. “Amen, Johnny. Amen….” Paul inhaled heartily and clutched John closer. All fell quiet, save for the one thing that connected them more than any carnal escapade.

Sweet, sweet music.

The beginnings of  “Modern Love” snaked warmly between the faint gap of their sweaty, exhausted bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was bad. it was awful. I'm aware. 
> 
> I'm really trying to keep my head above water with this fic, bc it just seems like a bunch of nonsense atm. in my head, it's going somewhere. whether it comes across as such on paper is a different question. 
> 
> leave a comment or kudos if you _do_ wanna see more of this fic. otherwise, I'll put all of us out of this misery and find a decent stopping point. (or leave it abandoned gasppp (jk that'd work too))
> 
> [i'm on tumblr and shit](http://www.unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Just add this to the list of fics I may or may not turn into a chapter fic. Comments may influence my decision. Thanks for reading!!!
> 
>  
> 
> [***Shameless Self-promotion***](http://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com)


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